The Date
by drekadair
Summary: After he wakes from his long sleep, Steve keeps a promise. On Saturday night, Peggy keeps hers. Separated by decades, both cope with their lost love in different ways. Twoshot. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I don't even know why I bother writing these anymore; they seem to have gone out of style and everyone know the drill anyway. But you should know that I don't own the things that Marvel owns, I'm just borrowing them for a good cry.

**Author's Note:** I'm sure this particular scenario has been done a few times, but I just saw Captain America for the first time and I got all teary-eyed at the end EVEN THOUGH I KNEW HE DOESN'T DIE. And I wanted to write this to deal with my emotions. So. I really love reviews, even if they're short.

**The Date**

He waited until Saturday night, but only barely. The week wore on with painful slowness: seventy years had passed him by in the blink of an eye but a few days stretched to infinity. There were people who wanted to see him, important people: officers, politicians, and those like Fury who didn't seem to fit into any box Steve recognized. He was polite to them, more out of habit than interest. There was paperwork, too, which was both a blessing and a curse. Bureaucracy, it seemed, was one of the few things that hadn't changed while he was asleep—but on the bright side, someone convinced the government to give him seventy years-worth of back pay. Steve suspected this minor miracle was an attempt by Fury to bribe him into cooperation. Still stunned by the enormity of what had happened to him, he didn't feel much inclined to be cooperative, but he took the money and was grateful for it.

He spent some of it on small excursions he took into the bizarre city New York had become, spending it mostly on newspapers and hotdogs bought from sidewalk vendors. These were things that were familiar to him, unlike the enormous televisions that had replaced billboards, or the shocking clothes worn by the women he walked past. He felt that somehow, once his errand was accomplished, he could begin to accept these new innovations, to pick up the threads of a new life rather than drift aimlessly, clutching at the tatters of his old one. That feeling tempted him not to wait, but the need to keep one part of his promise, no matter how small, kept him strong.

When Saturday came, he spent an exorbitant amount of money to take a cab to a cemetery whose name one of his Army visitors, a fan of his comics and eager to do a favor for the famous Captain America, had managed to provide him. He stopped only once on the way there, to buy flowers.

It was a nice cemetery—if any cemetery can be said to be nice: the close-clipped grass lush and green despite the summer heat, the rows of flat headstone shaded by oaks and maples. He took his time wandering back and forth along the rows as the air turned hazy and blue with twilight, looking for the right grave, but kept an eye on his watch—another of his small purchases. At eight o'clock exactly he stopped and read the inscription on the stone at his feet.

Peggy Carter

1912-2001

Beloved Wife and Mother

He covered the bottom line of words with his bouquet and said into the falling darkness, "Sorry I'm late."


	2. Chapter 2

**AN**: I watched the first episode of _Agent Carter_ and this happened. Because you can never have too much angst.

* * *

><p>Saturday night came. Peggy Carter had never been much for going out, and the war had curtailed what little social life she had, but in the back of her closet she found the dress she had bought in a moment of feminine enthusiasm. It was only a few years out of style, and it still fit. She curled her hair, brushed mascara on her lashes, and put on her fiercest shade of lipstick. Last was a pair of heeled pumps, red to match the dress.<p>

When it was all done, she took a moment to admire the effect in the mirror. She looked good, she thought. Beautiful, even. Sexy, certainly. She imagined Stark's expression if he saw her like this, and smiled a little. She carefully did not imagine Steve's expression.

She caught a taxi and reached the Stock Club at ten minutes till. The interior was dim and smoky in an expensive sort of way. On the dance floor, couples moved in time to the jazz band. Around the edges of the room, couples sat together at small tables. Everywhere she looked she saw men and women smiling, laughing, touching.

She found a table in a dark corner and ordered a gin and tonic. As she waited for her drink, her eyes strayed to the door again and again. Every tall man that walked into the club made her heart beat faster, though she knew she was being a fool. She could not help but feel that some kind of miracle was going to happen. It was like a magic spell: if she performed the correct actions in the correct sequence, she would get what she wanted. They had promised to meet at the Stock Club at eight this Saturday; she was here, so he must be here also.

The waiter came with her drink, but she ignored it. She checked her watch. _7:58_ Now she would allow herself to imagine—no, _anticipate_—what he would say about her dress, her lipstick. _7:59_ She could see him, so clearly in her mind's eye, stepping through the doorway, his eyes sweeping the room, looking for her. _8:00_ Now, _now_ was the moment the magic would take hold and he would appear—

8:01

_Maybe he's late._

8:02

_Maybe you're a fool._

At 8:03 Peggy Carter pressed her hand against her mouth to stifle a sob. Her fingers came away red with lipstick, like blood. There was no magic. She was a fool and he was dead. There was no magic.


End file.
